


you can't possibly refuse a deal made in the summer

by Stabbsworth



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Heat Stroke, Heat Syncope, Triumphant Wilson - Freeform, heat syncope is a real medical term and refers to fainting due to overheating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 20:29:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20534123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stabbsworth/pseuds/Stabbsworth
Summary: He owes her a few favours.





	you can't possibly refuse a deal made in the summer

**Author's Note:**

> so, i have a headcanon that triumphant characters, rather than being on the throne, are servants to the throne instead, hence why they can exist in-game.

It's Summer, and he's sitting down in a forest.

There's a wildfire going on somewhere, and he can't particularly bring himself to care about it right now. Every single heartbeat, every single little pulse of electricity as his nerves do their thing heats him up a little more, and he's not sure when his entire body will end up shutting down in some poor attempt to cool off.

It's something he's trying to avoid, but given that his one shirt is absolutely soaked in sweat and his other clothes absorb more light (and heat) from the Sun by the sheer virtue of being black and a very dark gray, and the fact that he's been wandering for some time in some bid to get out of the heat and into a cooler area, it's left him sitting down, under a tree and far, far too hot for comfort.

He has half a mind to unbutton his shirt and take his trousers off, but he has to keep himself marginally decent.

Maybe dehydration will kill him first. There's already the pulsing headache behind his eyes that he's learned to associate with it.

A lot of responses in his body were slightly skewed. He was used to it, idly remembering that he tended to get mild nausea when he hadn't eaten or a significant drop in his mood, or the way his hands would shake as a physical response to the increasing paranoia.

He shut his eyes and slammed his head into the tree he was sitting under, a raspy groan escaping his throat.

Stupid portals and that stupid solution. It was a half-baked attempt to get off the throne that shouldn't have worked but it did and he wasn't even sure what to make of it.

Mildly irritated eyes opened and closed again, face contorting into a grimace when the world spun, briefly. The lightheadedness had to be from either the heat or dehydration, he reasoned to himself.

There wasn't anyone around to lug him back to wherever the base was. No Wolfgang and his jovial, full-bellied laughter, no Wickerbottom to scold him for going out this far. No Maxwell to bicker with.

Hell, he wasn't even sure if there was a base in this world, and he hadn't seen anyone else about on the trails he'd followed.

There was a choked, indescribable noise from the man.

Being completely and utterly unable to do anything is rather stressful, especially when said inability to do things is completely and utterly outside of your control.

He slammed his head into the trunk of the tree again, hoping the impact would knock him out or do something to at least ease the discomfort.

Alas, it only produced blurred vision and an even worse headache.

Far too hot to be doing anything.

.o0O0o.

He's not sure why the lady calls him Cival.

Hell, he's not sure how he ended up in a bed. A proper bed. Not one of those straw or fur-lined rolls.

A proper bed with a pillow and a blanket. And a mattress that didn't give him any back pain.

She'd tried to talk to him a little, but he wasn't exactly responsive, simply sipping a glass of water that was on the nightstand and desperately hoping that the taste of bile in his mouth would go away.

There was also a fan, powered by unknown means, blowing cooler air at the both of them. She seated herself on the bed, idly mentioning something about heat exhaustion and suspected heat syncope.

Not exactly his field of science. He placed the glass back on the nightstand and asked what heat syncope was.

Fainting due to overheating, she said.

She offered him something. Room and board in exchange for working for Her. He could do as much science as he wanted.

He blinked a little, figuring that he owed her a few favours. She did save his life, after all.

They shook on it.

.o0O0o.

He's still not sure why She still calls him Cival.

He didn't bother asking, instead assuming it was simply a nickname. His middle name was Percival, after all.

Though, it's entirely possible that he became something else entirely when he was seated on what amounts to a glorified chair.

(He still despises that thing.)

He elects not to question why She's still on the chair and why She hasn't lured someone to the throne. He couldn't blame Her if She wanted to do that. He would have probably done the same thing, had his mental state been rough enough.

He does the paperwork and tries to make sure that it's submitted to Them on time, and makes arrangements.

It's decent enough.

.o0O0o.

She still calls him Cival, even when his visits to the throne aren't as often anymore, in lieu of causing chaos for the survivors. He almost wonders if he ought to visit more, if he would be allowed.

Teleportation gave him a headache, but he thinks he's got the hang of it now.

Still, he makes sure to visit, popping in with a few sparks of electricity. It gets lonely on there, he reasons to himself, She could probably use the company and someone to talk to.

He hopes that She enjoys the company, at least.


End file.
